The Sickness
by aforgottenwish
Summary: Complete! Occurs just after Superman Returns. After Superman saves Lex from a desert island, Lex returns the favour by trying to kill him. Again.
1. Chapter 1

_Superman Returns_ belongs to Red Sun Productions, Bryan Singer, Michael Dougherty, Dan Harris, etc. Copyright 2006.

The Sickness 

Superman retched. He wondered, idly, if he could be allowed to swear if he was in private. He looked around the empty bathroom, through the stall walls, through the porcelain sinks and pipes, into the empty offices and elevators.

There was no one in the entire building.

"Fuck," he muttered. If he wasn't facing imminent death, he might have noted how good the expletive felt in his mouth. He cursed again; cursed his superhuman gag reflex and his super strong stomach acid and his inability to turn his back on any living person in need.

"Fuck," he repeated.

Earlier that night, he'd been floating through a tropical cloud over a large body of water when he'd zeroed in on the sound of sobbing. He recognized the sobs—he'd saved this woman before.

Listening closer, he'd heard Lex Luthor. He was yelling at the woman. Almost as loud as the yells, he heard a stomach growling. They were starving.

Moments later he was hovering above the tiny island that they'd made their home. It was high tide; a helicopter was almost completely submerged in water; two ragged, dirty people crouched weakly on opposite sides of the mound of dirt, one of which was his arch nemesis, Lex.

He wanted to poke fun at the ravenous man, but knew that Superman had to be all noble and self-sacrificing, so he sacrificed the chance to mock the man who'd tried to kill him, and now looked tragically like a billiard ball on a stick.

He'd lifted the two of them, felt slightly repulsed at the dried blood on Lex's face, and flown them directly into a state penitentiary, much in the same form that he'd done more than five years ago. Just as he landed, Lex had reached into his bag and pulled out a box—it was made of lead.

Superman had been busy greeting the prison guards and hadn't noticed when Lex opened the box and pulled out a shard of the island that he'd created, Kryptonite spiked, and shoved it, without ceremony, into Superman's chest.

Superman swore again and shoved his finger further into his throat. He wondered if it was any easier for humans to make themselves vomit. He had read about bulimia nervosa; he thought perhaps it must be.

As he'd lied on the ground, squirming and moaning in pain, the prison guards had reacted, but only with their painfully slow human reflexes. Lex moved faster. He'd reached into the box again pulled out a small, pill shaped piece of metal. Moments later it was down Superman's throat, and he was gagging desperately, trying to expel it, or swallow it, anything so that he could breathe again.

The guards had pulled Lex off him. They'd removed the shard of Kryptonite from Superman's body; Superman's skin had healed, and there appeared to be no harm caused from the little scuffle.

Except for that thing that had been forced down his throat.

Laughing, Lex had explained, only too proudly, what had just occurred.

"It's a pill of powdered Kryptonite," he'd said, "coated in a very thin layer of lead. Given your alien physiology, I'm betting than your digestive system will process the lead very quickly."

Still homeless and desperate for a place to find refuge, Superman had flown to the Daily Planet. He crouched next to the toilet now, his cape puddle around him like a pool of blood; wondering why he couldn't be one of weak stomach and crappy gag control.

Slouching back, he sighed.

"Shit."

Q

He had started to get dizzy. Standing up, he'd toppled into the stall wall and it promptly fell over. He bounced the other way and managed to right himself. He couldn't be found here, like this. He had to be… his thought process derailed and he stumbled from the bathroom. He knew though, he had to be… he had to be Clark.

There was a storage room where he'd been keeping his luggage since he'd returned. No one had really noticed it. When he found time to sleep, he slept in that storage room, head propped up on his suitcase, thankful that his sleep-floating would spare him discomfort. He went to that room now, knocking over a plastic tree on the way.

Clumsily, he forced his legs into a pair of pants. He slid on a shirt and buttoned it all the way up. He had to go somewhere… somewhere where someone would find him.

He wondered, idly, if he would die.

He didn't hurt, not yet, but the effects of the Kryptonite were already starting to grip him. He couldn't see straight; he felt weak and strangest of all, he felt grounded. Whatever it was that allowed him to toss the laws of gravity out the window, it had left him now. What he was left with was discomforting; he felt lost.

The sun had risen while he'd been in the bathroom. He thought that people would be coming into work soon. He hoped that maintenance would be in soon; the room he was in was getting colder by the minute.

Q

Lois Lane sighed. She glanced over at Richard, whose eyes stayed firmly on the road ahead of them, so she sighed again; louder this time.

"What is it?" Richard asked, not unkindly.

"My career has hit a plateau," she said, glad to be able to unload. She hoped this traffic kept up—this rant was going to take a while.

"I won the Pulitzer for my article on Superman. Superman is all I was ever known for; I wrote about him five years ago, when he first surfaces, I coin his name for him. He disappears and I write about him; I win the Pulitzer Prize for that one, and then for four years, nothing. Perry doesn't let me write any exclusives, doesn't let me do any investigative reporting, it's all the boring news for me—"

"You covered a lot of interesting things," Richard pointed out. "You did that article on the pandas at the zoo, and the one about traffic law regulations and the—"

"Yeah, because everyone loves teddy bears and speeding tickets," Lois shot back. "The point is, that now, all your uncle will let me do is Superman. The Superman Returns article, and the one about when he was in the hospital, and that damned epic about his best saves, including the little tidbit about the piggyback launch gone bad."

"You refer to him as my uncle when you want me to intervene," Richard pointed out.

The car parked safely in the underground parking garage attached to the Daily Planet building, the two of them simultaneously opened their doors, slammed them with a touch too much vigour, and then proceeded to the elevator.

They traveled six floors in silence before Lois started up again.

"When people remember me," Lois continued, shifting her bag onto her shoulder, "they're going to think of Superman. And everyone already does enough thinking about Superman, so I think that I should get a chance to tie my name to a more original legacy. Superman's already got all the press he needs. There are other stories, and sure, yeah, so maybe they won't sell as well. Perry says what sells is tragedy, sex and Superman. So, I should at least get a chance to cover the tragedy. Right? I mean, don't you think I deserve—Clark?"

The two of them halted just outside the conference room. Clark was crumpled, in the fetal position, near the windows, the morning sun shining down on his pained face.

Lois rushed to his side. "Call an ambulance," she said to Richard. Richard reached into his pocket and drew out his cell phone.

Clark's hand shot out and grabbed Lois' wrist.

"No hospital," he gasped.

"Oh my God, he's running a fever," Lois said. "We have to get him to an ER."

Clark pushed himself up off the ground and propped himself against the wall. He used a shaking hand to push his glasses back up his face and then said again, with more conviction, "No hospitals."

Their editor-in-chief, Perry White, poked his head in the door.

"Perry," Lois said, turning towards him. "Do you have Clark's records? His emergency contacts? His family doctor?"

"He left that part blank," Perry replied. "He always does. What's wrong with him?"

With a moan, Clark slumped sideways again. "No… hospitals," he groaned.

"Better take him home," Perry said. "I don't want that virus to hit the rest of us."

"Does he even have a home address?" Lois asked. "I thought he was still looking for a place to live."

Perry shrugged. "Take him to your place. You have a few sick days built up. Take the day off, get this kid better, and I'll use one of your sick days for him too."

"Chief," she exclaimed. She pushed off the ground, as though being next to her pale, sweaty colleague suddenly repulsed her. "I have work."

"Yeah right," he barked. "I want the goods on Superman. You keep bringing me public interest pieces, which everyone knows hold none of the public's interest. The public wants Superman. Until you can bring me Superman, don't bother coming back to work."

"Perry," Richard protested. Lois didn't say anything. She pursed her lips.

"Fine," she growled. Kneeling down, she put her arm around Clark and, with a little of his help, dragged him to his feet.

"I'll drive," Richard offered.

Clark moaned.

Q

Lois let Richard drag Clark into the house. He dropped him casually onto the couch and then turned to his fiancé.

"I'll give you a hand with him quickly, but then I have to get back to work."

Lois placed a hand across Clark's forehead, but quickly drew it away.

"My God," she muttered. "He burned me."

"I'll bring some ice," Richard offered, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Lois stared at Clark. She'd never seen him sick before. Even though he was just an annoying kid to her most of the time, she'd been partners with him and she was worried. Feeling useless, she started to pull open his buttons, her reasoning being that, without the extra clothing, maybe his body would cool down a bit.

She froze. Letting out a yelp, she pushed herself backward as though she'd been burned again. "Richard," she called. "Richard," she said again.

She retreated into the kitchen. "He needs, um, medicine," she said. Hands quivering, she took the icepack from his hands. "Can you go to the pharmacy and get him medicine? Or um, I mean, just," she paused, closed her eyes. "Just go back to work. I can handle him, um, it. He'll be fine."

Richard cocked his head at her. "Are you alright?" he asked.

She forced a smile. "It's just seeing him this way… it's upsetting. I'm fine though; I'm fine."

Q

Lois approached him, slowly. Reaching forward, she drew off his glasses. She placed them firmly on her nose. They were clear lenses.

She stared at his face. He was an unearthly pale colour, even a little green; he was Clark though, she was sure of it, and she put the glasses back on his face.

He was definitely Clark, though.

She took the glasses off him again and closed her eyes. She waited a full minute before opening them again, and this time, she wasn't looking at Clark.

With a trembling hand, she undid another button. The suit was there, and when she pressed her hands onto his chest, she could feel the heat pulsating from him, and knew the feel of the fabric, the thick, alien spandex.

"No," she muttered.

She did up the buttons and placed the glasses back onto his nose. A bead of green sweat trickled down his face a pooled in the corner of his lip.

"Oh God," she whispered.

He was dying.

The sweat was more pronounced, gathering on his neck, on his palms, and she thought that probably; probably he was drowning in that green sweat inside of his skin tight suit.

"Clark?" she said softly. His eyes opened, just a little bit.

"Lois," he said. "I think I'm going to throw up." The way he said it, so matter of fact, she almost thought he was joking.

He was up, a minute later, though, and stumbling towards the bathroom—how he knew where it was, she had no idea—but he was tripping on everything and she ran after him, wanting to help him, to support him, but even incapacitated as he was, he could still outrun a human.

He vomited loudly into the toilet.

She kneeled by his side. His glasses had fallen; they were shattered under his knee. His hand crept to his face.

The colours swarmed in front of his eyes. He saw Lois, and knew that he wasn't at the Daily Planet any more, but didn't know how he'd gotten here; he didn't know who he'd been when they moved him. He didn't have glasses. He was wearing a button up shirt. He couldn't think. His insides were chewing contentedly on each other.

"Who am I?" he asked slowly. He pushed back from her; retreated into the corner of the bathroom. His face contorted into a distressed grimace. He could feel his own sweat poisoning him.

Lois stared. He was terrifying her; his helplessness; his confusion. Clark might be less than confident, he might sometimes seem nervous, twitchy, and clumsy, the way that this man was. But Superman—she couldn't fathom how it could even be possible.

But she saw the suit, had touched it, and looking at his face now, she wasn't sure how she could have missed it before.

"I'm dying," he whispered.

"No," Lois snapped. She was angry, suddenly; angry at how Clark could have deceived her, angry that Superman could act like such a pathetic, shy little man; angry that she had found out like _this_, when he seemed about to die.

"You're not going to die," she said firmly.

With a grunt of frustration, she realized that her courageous reassurances had been lost on his unconscious form.

"Wake up, Clark," she said. Again, she stared at the sweat. It was green—the conclusion formed quickly in her mind: the only thing that could hurt Superman was Kryptonite, and now, somehow, it was inside him.

His eyes fluttered open.

"We have to get it out of you," she said. "Can you throw up again?"

He shook his head. "It's past my stomach now," he slurred. "I can feel my blood boiling."

"The sweat," she said. "The fever is sweating it out of you."

Huddled in his corner, he shivered.

Lois moved quickly, deciding what she needed to do. She reached over to the shower and turned it on. She let it flow until it was warm, and then, without shame, turned to Clark.

"Help me," she muttered. She pulled his shirt open, and wiggled his arms out of it. "We have to get you out of this suit."

Quivering, Clark pushed himself up the wall until he was almost standing, and together they got him out of the skin tight suit.

Eyes pressed shut, Clark let himself slip away from the pain, and remembered the last time that he'd squirmed out of the suit for her.

"Last time was more fun," he muttered. Her arms wrapped around his torso, she guided him into the shower. They tripped on the raised tiles and she fell on top of him, the water soaking through her clothes.

The water circling the drain flowed green. He slipped sideways, and she put her hands on his shoulders, and then rested his head on her lap. Gradually, his temperature returned to the comforting warm that it usually was. Lois reached up and turned off the water, and watched him sleep.

They stayed that way for a long time.


	2. Chapter 2

_Superman Returns_ belongs to Red Sun Productions, Bryan Singer, Michael Dougherty, Dan Harris, etc. Copyright 2006.

Chapter Two

Lois knew, of course, that is was bad form to fall asleep when watching over an ailing friend. Considering her penchant for bad form, she was not all that surprised to find that she had done so.

She was, however, terrified to note that Clark had stopped breathing.

"Clark?" she asked, trying to make her voice sound casual, as though she was merely inquiring as to if he were awake or not.

"Clark?" she said again, desperately this time.

She pushed his head off of her lap, pausing only for a second to make sure that it didn't hit the tile. She got up from the shower floor and repositioned herself so that she could press her fingers against his neck.

His skin was a little bit like Jell-o, she mused. When struck at a high velocity, the offending projectile would ricochet, leaving no damage. Now though, she leaned in on his neck and the skin molded willingly under her fingers. The desired pulse was nowhere to be found.

She remembered being held up against his chest, how warm it had been, and how she could always feel the tha-thump of his heart, beating a hundred times stronger than a human heart ever could.

She thought of Clark waving eagerly at her from across the elevator.

"You're not dead," she said firmly. She looked around calmly for his underwear; Superman, though, could never squeeze a pair of undies on under that skintight suit. She went over to Richard's clothes and pulled out a pair of underwear. The plaid boxers looked too small for Superman's wide frame, but she dragged him out of the shower and shimmied the boxers up his thighs and over his hips.

As an afterthought, she checked for a pulse again, this time pinching his wrist and holding his hand against her face.

Superman had been in the hospital before. She'd written the article on it—she'd brought Jason to visit him. More importantly though, was the article. She remembered the doctor's name.

At the time, Superman had been comatose, and his heart rate had been so slow—forty beats per minute—that it had been virtually undetectable. That was what was happening now, she decided. The alternative, a superhero corpse on the floor of her house, was unimaginable.

No, the _bathroom_ floor was unimaginable. The bathroom floor—it was wet. It was flecked with his vomit. It was too white; it was much, much too white and his skin, pasty, blended almost perfectly. He'd disappear, she thought. He'd disappear right into the tiles.

Taking his wrist firmly in her hands, she dragged him across the bathroom floor, but when she reached the carpet of the hallway he stopped sliding and she fell.

His hand landed on her thigh, palm up; his head lolled from side to side as though they rocked on a boat. Her face contorted.

The sudden noise of her first sob startled her. It took her a moment to realize that she was the one making that atrocious sound, and she determinedly ignored it. She stood up again and took one wrist in each hand this time. She pulled until his torso was on the beige carpet. Clark was not beige. Clark was white.

She put her fingers on his neck, just under his jaw, and felt again, hoping that this time she'd detect a heart beat. His face, this strange mix of Clark and Superman, wasn't coated with a sickly sweat anymore, and she propped his head up on her knees, her legs folded beneath her. The sobbing, dry and painful, slowed as she lowered her forehead onto his.

He was warm.

Q

Lois Lane does not lose control. She looked at herself in the mirror. Lois Lane, she thought firmly, does not lose control.

She had called the doctor. She was Lois Lane. She was the authority on Superman. People listened to her.

She had changed into new clothes. She had used the blow dryer to dry her hair, stepping carefully over Clark's lifeless form. She had reapplied make up. She was Lois Lane, and she did not lose control.

She hid his clothes, next. The pants and jacket had to be hidden from the doctor who would think that he was Superman. The famous tights and cape had to be hidden from Richard, who thought he was Clark.

She hid both from herself. She didn't know who she thought he was.

She made herself some coffee, pulled out a copy of the Daily Planet, sat down at a nearby table at crossed her legs. She didn't look up when the door opened and closed a moment later.

"Lois," Richard said. "I'm on my lunch break and I wanted to check on you and your ward." He stopped when he saw Clark lying on the ground, naked but for the too-tight-boxers. "What happened?"

"He was just too big for me to move," Lois said, sipping on her coffee.

Richard rushed toward the body, sprawled all over his clean carpet. "How did he get like this?"

Lois looked up from her newspaper briefly. "He needed a shower. He showered. I gave him your underwear, and he fell asleep."

"You gave him my underwear?" Richard asked, his nostrils flaring in confusion. "Lois," he said, his voice suddenly grief-stricken. "He's not breathing, Lois."

"He's not dead," she said solidly.

Richard leaned over the body. "Lois, we need to call an ambulance."

She ignored him for a minute. "His doctor is coming. Just move him to the bed."

"Lois," he exclaimed. "What's wrong with you?"

Shaking her head, as though trying to get something off her face, she said, "Nothing; nothing's wrong with me." She got up, then, and together, the two of them moved Clark onto the bed. Richard stared at Clark. He leaned onto the bed and checked for a pulse.

"Lois…" he said. He sounded scared.

"He's not dead," she repeated. She looked down at Clark's body, sprawled on their king sized bed. The blue comforter looked familiar beneath the ailing hero.

She looked up again, to meet her fiancé's eyes, and the look she saw there, the curious, nervous and suspicious look he gave her often, of late, made her glance away. She stared at the curtains and repeated the sentiment in her head. _He's not dead_. "He can't be," she whispered.

Q

The doctor arrived. Lois forced Richard out of the house. She brought the doctor to Superman's bedside.

There was little she could do, she explained. She pulled out a heart monitor machine and attached the leads to the man's bare chest. Lois nearly fainted when she saw a teeny tiny blip marring the otherwise solid line.

It was a heartbeat.

They called paramedics and had him discretely moved to a hospital. Lois left a note for Richard and Jason. She packed her toothbrush. She packed Superman's suit and some leftover Chinese food.

They gave Superman a suite-sized hospital room, despite Lois' protests. She folded herself up on the rather uncomfortable chair and chewed distractedly on her food.

She realized, after about an hour, that she'd lost all feeling in her feet. Wincing at the pain she stood up slowly, leaning against the chair she'd parked herself in. Glancing across the deluxe hospital room, she decided that the loss of sensation in her legs was a good enough reason to take a walk. Slowly, she wandered over to his bed.

"I know you can hear me," she said quietly. She leaned heavily on the bed. "I know," she repeated, "that you can hear me."

She paused, wondering what on earth she could say to voice the pain and confusion and the betrayal and relief and terror. She wondered if he would ever wake up; if he'd be angry that she knew. She wondered why he pretended to be this guy… this guy, Clark Kent, who was, more than anyone else she knew, _just a guy_. She realized that he probably craved normalcy more than she longed for a good, exciting story.

"I'm so mad at you," she finally said. "Every day, before, when I would long for Superman's company, you'd just sit there, Clark Kent in his awkward glory, and watch me writhe. You knew… of course, you knew how badly I wanted to be with you. You just… you just watched me, you god damned jerk. And then, you leave."

She made a fist and punched his arm, not hard, but it was enough to feel how vulnerable he was right now.

"You left me," she said, her voice squeaking. "You must have hated me. I thought that we had a connection. I thought," she stopped suddenly. She pushed away from the bed and returned to her chair. In her head, she felt the words burning subtly, as though aching to be vocalized.

She looked up at him and, no longer whispering, just said it. "I thought you loved me."

Q


	3. Chapter 3

_Superman Returns_ belongs to Red Sun Productions, Bryan Singer, Michael Dougherty, Dan Harris, etc. Copyright 2006.

This chapter is posted for Dandette, because I enjoyed her review. Thanks to everyone else who reviewed!

And I just want to point out that I finished this fic instead of studying for Calculus. I'm fairly certain that failure is immanent.

Chapter Three

Lois woke up to the sound of a torrential yawn. She jerked upright and watched Clark, sitting up now, chewing idly on his tongue as though his mouth tasted funny. He looked confused, and that, coupled with his bed head (apparently he employed less than super powered hair gel) was, in fact, quite amusing.

Or it would have been, had Lois not been so angry.

"It's Lois," she said, her voice corrosive. "In case you can't see me. You smashed your glasses."

A brief look of relief passed over his face—now that his identity had been reaffirmed, he could start acting like Clumsy Clark Kent, instead of Self-assured Superman.

"Any idea where my clothes—" he started, but Lois interrupted him in her usual style.

"They're on the chair," she said, pointing. She watched, with cruel pleasure as his eyes widened. The cape and super-suit, draped neatly over the other, less comfortable, hospital chair, were certainly not the property of a normal law-abiding human.

It was most obviously the property of one extraterrestrial that always broke the laws of nature that Newton had so kindly put into place.

"Lois, I…" he muttered.

"Listen," she said loudly, "I think it's pretty obvious what's going on here."

He had this hurt look on his face, the way he'd been when she'd almost kissed him. He'd stepped away from her and looked as though she was threatening to kill him—and at the time she'd been too upset to even realize that when a man couldn't be hurt the conventional ways, the other wounds must hurt all that much more.

"You're some sort of sicko," she said finally, sarcastically. "You like to play pretend? Put on the suit and imagine you're some sort of world renowned hero, when all you are is a lousy reporter? It's weird, Clark, really twisted."

The look on his face really was one of the best things she'd ever seen. He looked mostly baffled and a little bit insulted. She kept herself from smiling.

"It's a pretty good replica suit, I'll grant you that," she continued, standing up to move towards the suit. She held it up. "But I think we both know that Superman's a lot taller than you are." She lifted the heavy boots from the ground.

Still looking perplexed, Clark shrugged his shoulders dramatically. "You caught me," he said slowly. "I'm just some Superman impersonator in my spare time."

"Some strange, crazy, fetish Superman impersonator," Lois suggested.

He looked about to burst.

"For God's sake, Lois," he finally exclaimed.

"You're a jerk, you know that?" she yelled, much louder than him. She threw the boot in her right hand at him, as hard as she could. It bounced off his head, and he yelped.

"Frigging Man of Steel," she raged. "You catch airplanes like beach balls and suddenly it hurts when you get a little knock on the head?" She launched the suit at him, which flopped lifelessly to the floor. She approached quickly and used the big boot to smack him on the head again.

"Like I didn't even deserve to be told, you giant, alien-sized jerk?" she shouted. She hit him again, and when he let out an effeminate squeak and attempted to shield himself from her blows with his arms, she continued, "Stop pretending it hurts! Guns shoot you again and again, and you never even flinch. You're god damned Superman, just admit it!"

"Okay!" Clark called. "I'm Superman! Just stop hitting me!"

Surprised, Lois dropped the boot. It landed unstably on the bed and then dropped to the floor.

"It hurt?" she asked, genuinely curious. If it hadn't then he was a hell of an actor; there were tears welled up in his eyes. She supposed, though, that he pretended enough every day to have earned a few acting awards by now.

"Yeah," he said, touching his forehead gingerly. "Sick, remember?"

"Oh yeah," she said, suddenly ashamed. "God, I forgot."

"I think I need to throw up again," he muttered, and, pulling the heart monitor stickies from his chest, he bounded towards the bathroom. She watched his bum, clad in very tight boxers, through the curtains of the hospital gown as he retreated.

She followed him and sat down next to where he knelt. "It was Kryptonite?" she asked. When he did answer, she touched his arm.

"Clark?" she asked, quietly. It was more than just a plea for attention; it was affirmation of what they both knew she knew. It was something they needed—some sort of conclusion to the deceit.

He looked up, his lips twisted into a grimace from the taste of stomach acid. The grimace changed, just for a moment, into a look of resigned determination.

"Yeah," he replied, as though it was nothing. To both of them, though, it changed everything.

He leaned against the wall, the hospital gown draped awkwardly over his body; Lois crouched nearby.

"Who are you?" she asked. There was a long silence. "Are you Clark," she continued, "pretending to be Superman? Or, are you Superman, pretending to be Clark?"

The nausea overcame him again, and he choked into the toilet. Lois politely averted her eyes.

He sat back again, resting his head in his hands. He didn't look at her.

"I don't really know," he said finally. "A little of both, I guess."

Lois stood up and tore the plastic off one of the cups by the sink. She turned on the tap and leaned down again, handing him the water.

"I grew up Clark Kent," he continued. "I was always kind of a loner—I didn't want anyone to get close enough to realize how different I was."

"You should have told me," she whispered. "You should have trusted me."

"It wasn't about trust, Lois," he replied. He sipped the water modestly, obviously completely unaware that he actually managed to pull off the sickly look. Mentally, Lois shrugged. He was hot, even half-dead.

They were interrupted, then, by the inquisitive face of a doctor.

"How are you doing, Mr. um, Superman?" she asked. Clark, a little embarrassed to be looking so completely vulnerable.

"Better," he replied. "I wanted to thank you and your hospital for offering me asylum. I'm truly grateful, and I'll ensure that any associated costs are dealt with."

Lois was shocked at how easily he slipped back into his role as politically-correct world mascot.

"Don't be silly," the doctor replied. Her jaw dropped, apparently horrified at having accused Superman of being silly. "I just meant that the costs will be covered, Mr. um, Superman, sir."

Superman grinned weakly. "Thank you," he muttered, the weakness overcoming him again. His eyes fluttered shut.

Together, Lois and the doctor hauled him back to bed. The doctor reattached his heart monitor and was pleased to note that it was beating strongly again, if not particularly quickly. Lois watched him, and noticed that, at some point, he shifted from being near comatose to merely sleeping. His lips twitched into a smile and he curled sideways.

It was nearly midnight. That morning, she had been shocked to discover Superman's suit under Clark Kent's baggy clothes, and now, no longer facing his immanent death, she allowed herself to get really pissed off. She wondered if he'd be hard enough to hit when he woke up next.

Q

She returned home. She trusted the doctor on call; the woman had promised that none of this would get to the press, and that she'd monitor him closely. No nurses, orderlies or other doctors would be allowed in his room. They understood that keeping it a secret would prevent mobs from clogging up the streets in front of the hospital. The real reason was that she didn't want anyone else making the connection.

A Clark Kent hospital visit would be nothing extraordinary. Except that Richard believed him to be dead—that could be a monster to explain when Clark returned to work, healthy and breathing.

When she got in, Richard berated her for having let Clark die. Despite her assurances that Clark was going to be fine, Richard seemed, still, completely convinced that their associate was dead.

That morning, she left for work early, to check on him again. She was shocked to discover the empty hospital room.

Having found the doctor that she'd left him with, she demanded, in typical Lois Lane fashion, what had transpired.

The woman shrugged. "He put the suit on, thanked me again, and left. I didn't think that you expected me to keep him here."

"No," Lois admitted. "But I wanted to see him, I guess."

She'd left for work, feeling slightly put out that she hadn't gotten her chance to yell at him. To yell at Clark. She had started to let the notion sink in, a little. Clark equals Superman, she said in her head. She parked her car and slammed the door. Superman equals Clark.

She rode the elevator all the way to the roof. She wondered if knowing he was Clark would help her to fall out of love with Superman. She'd never loved Clark, barely noticed him, and she had a family now. She had created this family with Jason in the center and Richard on the peripheral, supporting and fathering and fiancé-ing.

She had wondered, once the bitter anger had worn off, what it would have been like with Superman at the helm instead of Richard. Now that he was back, the possibility was so devastatingly near, so she grasped to any notion that might make pushing Superman away any easier.

Because she had a family; tearing that family apart wasn't good for any of them.

She stood on the roof for a long while. Superman didn't come.

Q

When she finally returned to the main offices of the Daily Planet, she was surprised to note that, instead of the usual near chaos, everyone was hushed, speaking in somber tones. Everyone looked up when she entered. Jimmy stepped out of the crowd, his freckles brightly overlaying his very pale face.

"Clark's dead," he said. He reached out and took her arm, as though he expected her to fall.

"The hospital just called," he continued. "He died of… of massive organ failure," he said, sounding shocked and confused. "Lois," he said softly, "Lois, someone poisoned him."

Lois shook her head. "No, he was fine, I was just there. He signed himself out," she protested, forgetting that, of course, _Superman_ had signed himself out.

Jimmy nodded. "They said that. They said he left, but he must have been in so much pain; he collapsed a few minutes later, he hadn't even gotten out of the building. They rushed him to the ER, but it was too late."

He sat down, hard, on the edge of his chair. The wheels flew out from under him and he ended up on the floor. He whimpered.

Lois wanted to scream at him for being so stupid. Of course Clark wasn't dead; he was Superman, for God's sake.

It was Kryptonite, though, she reminded herself. Kryptonite kills.

Maybe Superman really had collapsed outside the hospital… maybe, somehow, the doctor had overheard that Superman had a normal-person-identity and made the connection. Superman though… he couldn't be dead.

But Superman was Clark Kent.

And Clark Kent was dead.

Q


	4. Chapter 4

_Superman Returns_ belongs to Red Sun Productions, Bryan Singer, Michael Dougherty, Dan Harris, etc. Copyright 2006.

Chapter Four

He'd heard Lois leave a few hours before, but hadn't had the energy to open his eyes. Despite the fact that he'd sweat a lot of the Kryptonite out of his system, and even though he'd thrown up a few times, he could still feel the influence of the evil rock inside him. He felt weak; pathetic.

Now, though, he could sense someone near him. He opened his eyes.

He was interested to note that he was staring down the barrel of a gun. His eyes crossed.

"Superman," a cool, female voice said. Refocusing, Clark saw that it was his doctor. She looked more collected now, holding a gun to the forehead of the Man of Steel than she had previously, when she had shyly inquired if he needed anything.

Normally, being at gunpoint wouldn't faze him. Currently, he was weak enough that Lois brandishing a boot at him had left a bruise.

"Can I help you?" he asked, putting on a false mask of confidence. Truthfully, he was a little bit nervous.

She nodded, smiling in a sultry way. "I want you to listen to what I have to say," she stated.

Clark lifted his hands, frustrated, "You have all my attention," he pointed out. "Though, generally, I'm happy to have a conversation when not held at gunpoint."

She gestured with her chin to his arm. He frowned when he saw the IV sticking out of it. "You were dehydrated, so we figured we may as well try to start a line," she explained. "The needle poked you, no problem. I'm guessing that the bullet will poke with even less of one."

Reached over, Clark picked idly at the skin around the IV. He'd never had a needle stuck into him before. He wiggled the cord and felt the needle wiggling in response, under his skin.

"My mother died last Monday," the doctor said. "Elira Laurella, a beautiful, strong woman."

"I'm so sorry," Clark said truthfully.

"It was a robbery," she explained. "A stick up in a bank in Grandville; she was used as a hostage, and then shot as though she was nothing." Her voice betrayed no emotion. Clark knew what was coming next—the blame. He should have saved her mother. He should have listened harder, flown faster or sacrificed any number of others to save her. He sighed.

"I never blamed Superman," she said, surprising him. "He's a busy man; he flies all around the world, saves thousands of people, and never asks for anything in return. He—you, of course, are admirable. A God among men."

Clark frowned. Why on earth would she be threatening to kill the saviour she had just described? He wished that he could just peg her as a bad guy, wrestle the gun from her hands, and turn her over to the cops. Unfortunately, his hands trembled and the needle in his arm was reminding him that right now, he was more human than he'd ever been.

And he was kind of curious.

"The problem arises," she continued, her eyebrows raised, "when said God pretends to be a man." She licked her lips and cocked the gun.

"I don't blame Superman," she repeated. "I blame Clark Kent."

There was a long silence. After a thought, Clark decided that this was what it felt like to have his blood run cold.

"Overheard you in the bathroom," she explained, shrugging, "so I looked into it; Clark Kent and Lois Lane, quite the pair. Only makes sense that she'd be the one privy to you little secret."

"I, uh," Clark started, unsure of what to say. He wanted to ask her not to betray his confidence, but the gun held to his face made him suspect that she wasn't necessarily on his side.

"So here's my problem," she said. She lowered the gun slightly, so that it was pointing at his chest. That he had a clear view of her face, emotionless and unreadable, only made him slightly less fidgety. "When my mother died, Superman wasn't off in Indonesia saving some starving children from a forest fire. Superman wasn't wiping waste from a toxic oil spill from the head of a baby seal. Superman wasn't even breaking up a bar fight. Superman was behind a desk, playing make believe."

Suddenly, there was a crack in her stony demeanor. She shoved the barrel of the gun into his chest, making him grunt and crumple.

"You were just playing a game," she said, the hysteria in her voice becoming apparent. "Clark Kent, the reporter, mocking us by pretending to be human; how _dare_ you," she hissed, lowering her voice, obviously scared that another doctor would hear the noise. "How _dare_ you sit behind a desk, using your super speed to type your witty stories when you could be saving lives?"

A tear spilled from her left eye and she brushed it away angrily. "My mom died," she whispered, after a long pause, "while Clark Kent was working on his next byline for the Daily Planet.

"So," she continued, "I'm here to free you from your mortal torment. Everyone knows how Superman operates; he puts every other life above his own, he makes sacrifices, he protects the world." She grinned again, a bitter, angry smile. "Except for when he's a journalist."

Clark stiffened. Freedom from being mortal generally meant being dead.

For a moment, he tried to imagine the deep amount of shit the person who killed Superman would be in. If nothing else, he was at least relatively well liked—okay, maybe not liked, but definitely appreciated—by the world at large. He wondered if Lois was still too angry to even care if he was shot down while defenseless in a hospital bed.

He jumped at a sudden smacking noise. He was sure, absolutely sure, that a gun didn't sound like that. He looked down and saw that, instead of shooting him in the chest, the doctor had slapped a piece of paper on his thigh.

It was a death certificate.

He reached forward and lifted the paper into better view. His name, Clark Kent, was printed neatly on the line labeled 'full name'. His occupation was filled out as 'reporter' and the address of his office was there, correctly filled out.

According to this paper, there had been no autopsy.

According to this paper, he'd died of massive organ failure following accidental heavy metal poisoning.

"Bizarre," he said quietly.

"Superman makes sacrifices," she explained. "And I know you'll make the right decision. Either Clark Kent disappears off the face of the planet, given up as dead by those who know and love him, or the people you know and love will start dying off." She placed her fingers on her chest and let them crawl upwards, towards his neck. "Lois," she said, taking a finger-sized step, "her little son… the Olson boy…"

"I would never let anything happen to them," he said, raising his chin. He pretended that he was strong and confident. Even considering his current lack of super powers, he was still no less Superman.

"But you can't watch them all the time," she pointed out. "That would mean letting other people die, and Superman can't do that, can he?"

Plucking the piece of paper from his hands, she leaned back and lowered the gun. Her face was fluid, and for a second she looked worried.

"You understand why I'm doing this, right?" she asked, sounding like a scared girl for the first time since she'd entered the room. "I'm doing this for the good of everyone. Now that you're here, and dedicating yourself fully to our cause, people never have to die any more. Don't you realize how important that is?"

For a moment, he closed his eyes, and remembered Lex Luthor's spiteful face in his peripheral vision, whispering angry, evil little words into his ear before shoving the jagged piece of green rock into his back.

He remembered falling for so long, and how he started to lose faith.

This woman was demanding that he give up everything.

"I know that you're supposedly noble and all," she whispered, "but if anyone comes after me, I have safeguards in place. If I die unexpectedly, then the whole world will know about who Clark Kent really is."

Superman thought of the time, before he'd left, when he'd kissed Lois and made her forget who he was. He looked at this woman, wide eyed, and tried to imagine doing the same to her.

But the kiss with Lois… it had been an act of love; he'd only desired to remove her from pain and take away the knowledge that could get her killed. He hadn't done it to protect himself; he'd done it for the woman he'd loved.

And this doctor, he thought sadly, she was right.

Sacrifices needed to be made.

Q

She'd told them she was going home. They'd all understood—though she was abrasive and sarcastic to the poor boy most of the time, they'd still been partners.

She actually took the elevator to the roof and stood near the edge, leaning up against the thick, stone guard wall. Lois thought about the last time that they'd met on this roof. She'd nearly kissed him; their lips had come so close that she'd been able to feel the warmth radiating from him. She closed her eyes.

The wind blew harshly, but she convinced herself that she could feel his arms around her again.

His whisper, shy, pleading, "Will you come with me?"

His words, betraying his hurt, "You wrote that the world doesn't need a savior…"

And she remembered further, to the fragmented memories of their only night together.

She inhaled deeply and could almost taste his smell amongst the city stench.

"Lois?"

Her eyes snapped open. And he stood there, looking curious, as though merely wondering why she was looking so terribly melancholy.

The speed at which her mood changed was tremendously impressive. No longer was she contemplative; she was now roaring mad.

"Where have you been?" she demanded. She didn't approach him.

"I went to see my mom," he said. "I didn't want her to get that phone call and think I was dead."

Lois paused, only for a second, to puzzle the strangeness of Superman suddenly having a mother. She supposed, though, that Superman really didn't—Jor-el and Lara were long dead—but his alter ego, Clark, had been a child, had grown up like people so often do. It was a weird, weird concept.

"Didn't seem to mind that I did," she quipped.

He frowned, confused. "But you saw me," he pointed out. "I thought you would have figured out that if Superman didn't die, then Clark Kent didn't either." He stopped talking suddenly. "Or hadn't you realized that two plus two equals four?"

His glib caused Lois to have one of the strangest experiences of her life—she was speechless. He wasn't smiling. He looked terribly distressed. Before she could string together a coherent sentence, he started talking again. Quietly, this time; almost sadly.

"Lois," he said. "He's going to be different."

At the mention of her son, the fury cascaded from her body.

"Jason," she whispered.

"I just want you to know," he continued, "that I'll be there for him. Whenever he needs me." He let his gaze drop to the ground.

"What you said before," he said. "You asked me how I could have left you. You didn't mean the world, did you Lois?"

"I was alone," she whispered. "In a few weeks I realized that you weren't coming back. I was pregnant and alone. How could you have left me like that?"

He moved forward now, and he fell to his knees in front of her. "If I'd known, Lois… I never would have—"

She shook her head. "It doesn't matter anymore, Clark," she said. He reached for her, wanting to pull her hips close, press his head against her stomach, as though an embrace could demonstrate his remorse the way words never could.

Lois flinched. "Don't touch me."

She started to cry, small, pathetic sobs wracking her body. "Just, please," she muttered, "don't touch me anymore."

Still looking up at her, he let his hands drop. He stood up gracefully and reached out, cupping her face in his hand. She moved away from him, but her eyes fell shut and she let herself lean, only a little, into his warm hand.

She stifled a sniffle and kept her eyes closed, savouring a moment when perhaps, nothing else mattered.

She moved toward him, and, once again, their lips almost touched.

"I love you," he said softly. The sincerity in his voice cut deeper than any painful words could have. "Even if you wanted me back, Lois," he said, "you know that Jason needs a real father. I'll always be there for him," he said again.

The doctor's words echoed in his mind, _Superman makes sacrifices… I know you'll make the right decision_.

He knew that, no matter how much it hurt, he was.

"Superman," she whispered. She stepped away and shook her head, brushing the tears from her face. "Clark," she corrected herself.

"Don't give up on Clark just yet," he said. "I'm not." She noticed that his feet barely touched the ground any more; he was starting his retreat.

She had so many questions—she wanted to know everything about Clark Kent, her mysterious and shy associate, she wanted to know why he hadn't told her sooner and why he'd 'died'.

But he was high above the Daily Planet globe; not out of earshot—for him, nothing was.

So she watched him fly away, and she told herself that she could have this minute to live in the past. Then, she thought, she would move on.

In one minute, she repeated in her head, she would go back downstairs to Richard and Jason and try to forget her passionate love affair with the demigod that haunted her dreams.

And the future… it would begin then.

In one minute.

She looked up into the sky and then, slowly closed her eyes.

The words were so quiet that she could barely hear them, but she knew, without a doubt, that he'd heard.

"I love you, too."


End file.
